


i'll tell you my sins (you can sharpen your knife)

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhenya’s spent the past ten years trying to prove to everyone and anyone that being bonded to one of the CIA’s top senior agents means shit to one of the world’s greatest thieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bropunzeling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/gifts).



> Because I saw Kingsman today, and it got me inspired to write some angst. Mentions of violence befitting the universe.
> 
> For Jess, because she prompted me for my follower milestone on Tumblr, and probably deserves it for a bunch of other reasons.

“Where is he?”

It’s more of a demand than a question, with the kind of push behind that calm tone-- the one that can put a quiver in the knees of the toughest agents.

Agent Bennett swallows, tapping his headset. “Holding Cell 71A. But, sir--”

“Thank you, Bennett,” Agent Crosby says, swiftly cutting him off. He strides down the corridor, heading toward the elevator for the holding cells.

“He’ll never see the light of day again, sir! Not this time!” Bennett calls after him.

Crosby’s footsteps halt, just the tiniest pause. It’s enough to tell Bennett the senior agent is well aware of the fate that lies in store for 71A.

 

* * *

 

“Are you proud of yourself?” a voice comes from the doorway, breaking Zhenya from his ruminations.

He’s sitting on the spartan bed in the cell, elbows on his knees, with his chin resting on his laced fingers. He figured he had nothing but time, not after this last bust, so he’s been counting prime numbers.

It was a good day-- he made it up to 4,583,063 before he heard footsteps echoing down the corridor, and his traitorous heartbeat picked up.

Zhenya smiles, partly because he knows it pisses him off. He also smiles because he’s helpless to do anything but. Fucking bond.

“I asked you a question, you piece of shit,” Sidney hisses, slamming the cell door shut behind him. Zhenya looks up at that, quirking an eyebrow. In ten years, Sidney’s never sworn at him. It _must_ be serious.

“Call me names, now?” he asks instead, because it’s easier. Sidney’s vibrating with fear and rage, but it’s only ten years and a bond with the man that gives Zhenya that insight. He’s otherwise indiscernible underneath that suit and dark eyes.

“You deserve it, after that last fucking stunt. Who the hell do you think you are? What the hell are you _doing?_ ”

Sidney’s voice cracks on the last of it, and it breaks Zhenya’s heart, just a little. Oh, who is he kidding-- it smashes it to a billion pieces. The sound of Sidney hurting always has. Sidney’s his biggest blind spot. His weakness. His Achilles heel.

Zhenya’s spent the past ten years trying to prove to everyone and anyone that being bonded to one of the CIA’s top senior agents means shit to one of the world’s greatest thieves.

“I’m do my job, Sid,” Zhenya says with a shrug. His hands curl into fists, the nail biting into the flesh of his palm, in every effort not to do what his body and soul are singing out to do-- not to rush to Sidney, to press kisses to every inch of his face and promise he won’t steal or forge another priceless piece of art again, if it means hurting Sidney.

“Fuck you, your _job_. It’s not a fucking job. You’re a criminal, and they’re going to lock you away forever! Don’t you understand?” Sidney’s coming unravelled now, bright pink spots high up on his cheeks and his hair slipping from its carefully slicked back home. Zhenya’s end of the bond throbs. Sidney’s been closed off to him for years, and the bond _knows_ they’re so close, knows it and it _aches_ to be open and free.

The thing is, Sidney is very, very good at his job.

His closure rate is at 87%, the highest percentage across the entire organisation, and if Zhenya wasn’t who he was, he’d be proud. Hell, he is proud. He’s proud every single day of how good Sidney is, and how he works so hard to keep innocent people safe.

The thing is, though, is that Zhenya is also very, very good at his job.

It was never going to work. 

 

* * *

 

Sidney’s in ecstasy being this close to G-- to Malkin.

It’s his cross to bear, his bond marking.

Bonds can manifest in all sorts of ways; hearing thoughts, emotion sharing, physical intimacy, or soul marks. Sidney’s manifestation came in the form of physical intimacy. It meant that everyone’s touch made him feel a little uncomfortable, a little uneasy.

Everyone except Malkin’s.

Malkin’s manifestation was emotional, meaning he could feel everything Sidney was feeling. Sidney was pretty sure he could even hear Sidney’s thoughts, if they were close enough, and ten years of trying to shield still left him nowhere.

So while he’s trying to keep calm and controlled, like he does so very well, being around Malkin makes him… careless. It makes him unbridled and unguarded, open in the most dangerous ways.

Ten fucking years of this shit, and all he wants to do is cross the distance of the holding cell and kiss Geno, strip him of his clothes, and make love for hours. It’s devastating.

“They’re not even going to bother with a trial. You’ve got about fifty arrest warrants and ten extradition orders all across the globe. The CIA are just deciding if they want you more, or if they can use your extradition as leverage for something,” Sidney continues, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Geno slumps back against the wall. He looks amazing, even though he’s been in a holding cell almost ten hours.

They caught him in Marrakech this time. He was in a tuxedo when they took him in; Sidney can see the bow tie tucked into his pocket, and the pristine white shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest. The jacket is thrown over a nearby chair, and his hair is dishevelled, but he looks so fucking good. Geno’s always looked so fucking good.

“Can I have food? I didn’t get to finish tagine,” Geno says, breaking the silence of Sidney’s last outburst. “Mint tea, too. Please.”

Sidney’s across the room and punching Geno right in the cheek before he realises what he’s doing. The sound of his fist hitting Geno is ugly, and the overwhelming spark of desire and love that shoots up Sidney’s arm is like a kickstart to his heart, exploding inside him in a shower of exaltation.

“Fuck you, Geno. You’re going to fucking rot in here, and I’m… what the fuck am I supposed to do with a bondmate who’s a fucking criminal?” Sidney says wetly. His hand hurts.

 

* * *

 

“They’re going to cut him a deal,” Fleury murmurs on the other side of the glass. Letang and Dupuis are there as well, inscrutable as they watch Crosby punch Malkin.

It took a fifteen-strong extraction team, led by Kessel and Knight, before they could subdue Malkin and bring him in. And yet, Malkin still managed to seriously injure twelve of their team, before Knight football tackled him through a poker table.

Hundred thousand dollar chips had flown everywhere.

“Of course they will,” Dupuis hears Letang mutter, swearing under his breath in French. “If Crosby wasn’t as good as he is--” Letang starts.

“But he is, and they’re bonded, so don’t even bother finishing that sentence,” Dupuis says. Letang falls silent, far from chastened but not willing to argue right now.

“He stole over ten million dollars of jewels. And we’re pretty sure he’s run a few jobs in Johannesburg in the past month. Why the hell else be in Marrakech?” Fleury says.

“Why indeed,” Dupuis says. Malkin’s reaching for Crosby, his long fingers wrapping around Crosby’s hand, the one he punched Malkin with. He sees Crosby’s shoulders sag, sees all the tension bleed from him with just one touch.

Bonds are an amazing, breathtaking thing to behold.

“He’s doing it for attention,” Knight says as she comes to stand with them. She speaks fluent French and constantly eavesdrops on their conversations, unwelcome as it is.

“Who is?” Letang asks. He bites, every single time.

“Malkin. Notice a dip in his activity every time we catch him. Remember when he dropped off the face of the Earth, back in 09? Found out he’d been living with Crosby in domestic bliss the entire time. Then one of his old Siberian buddies got in contact and pulled him in for a job, Crosby found out and kicked him out. He’s been pulling bigger and bigger heists ever since.” Knight’s holding Malkin’s file. It’s thick and dogeared, stamped in almost every square inch with CLASSIFIED and RETRACTED and RELEASED.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Fleury says. Knight shrugs, slapping the file against Dupuis’ chest.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Orders from above, Malkin’s being released into Crosby’s custody. He’s cut a deal, grassing on a few big timers he met in North Africa. Apparently they’ve got nukes.” Knight disappears after dropping that particular bomb, and Letang and Fleury follow her out, exhausted. It’s apparently up to Dupuis to deliver the news.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you doing this to me, Geno?” Sidney asks, his head bowed. Zhenya can’t-- the bond is open, now that they’re touching, and the pain is intense and overwhelming. It floods through him, Sidney’s pain, the pain _he’s_ causing Sidney, and he just needs it to stop.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, please, baby, forgive--” Zhenya cuts off with a choke, standing up and gathering Sidney into his arms. He wraps them as tightly as he can around Sidney, breathing him in and moaning with it. Sidney smells like coffee and sweat and spiced cologne, like peanut butter and Sam, like everything Zhenya’s been waking up to in the middle of the night with a shout to.

There’s a knock on the door and Sidney doesn’t even move, doesn’t react, too far into the bond manifest to even notice anyone or anything but Zhenya.

Agent Dupuis appears in the doorway, holding a thick file. He shuts the door and places it on the desk.

“You’re being released into Agent Crosby’s custody. The CIA thanks you for being cooperative this time, Mr. Malkin.”

“Professor Malkin,” Zhenya corrects without pause. Agent Dupuis inclines his head.

“Yes. Can’t forget your PhD in Aeronautical Engineering, or your Masters in Applied Physics.”

“PhD in Theoretical Physics now, too,” Zhenya says. Sidney looks up at him.

“Did you steal that?” he asks.

Zhenya shakes his head. He needed something to do in the years he’s been adrift from Sidney. He figured more education between stealing Degas and Goyas was a good application of his eidetic memory and countless hours.

“Maybe try and stay out of trouble this time around, Professor Malkin,” Dupuis says, before walking back out.

Sidney pulls back, his fingers gripping the edges of Zhenya’s shirt.

“If you come back-- if you stay, Geno, you gotta… I can’t take it anymore, I just--”

“I won’t steal anymore. I’m get real job, stay here with you, Sid. Want you forever. Need you more.” Zhenya seals it with a kiss, tipping Sidney’s face up to him, pressing his lips to that plush, pink mouth that’s been teasing him for ten years. Sidney whimpers into it, his fingers digging into Zhenya’s hips.

“No more stealing,” Sidney says against his mouth. Zhenya nods, pulling Sidney flush and kissing him again.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya wakes up one morning to an empty bed and a phone call from an unknown number.

It’s been eight months, seven days and an hour since he was released back into society, and back into Sidney’s life.

He’s got a fellowship, lives in a brownstone, and they just adopted a dog together.

“Ah, Zhenya, you’re a hard man to track down. When you want to disappear, you really go for it,” Sanja’s voice floats down the line, melodical and teasing. Zhenya’s entire core tightens.

“How did you find this number?” he says, as calmly as he can manage. He reaches into the side table for the pistol he knows Sidney keeps there, his fingers scrabbling until they wrap around the cool metal. You never know with Sanja, he could be in the next room or a million miles way. Zhenya always likes to be prepared for either eventuality.

“I’m resourceful, Zhenya, you know that. I’m at your mama’s, having tea. Her borscht is as good as ever.” Sanja’s tone is cheerful, but the threat is clear and ever present.

_I know where you are, and where your family is, and I can always get to them._

“I’ve got a job, Zhenya, and I need the best thief in the game on my crew. Interested?”

_You have no choice, and fuck you for ever thinking you could get away._

Six years ago, Zhenya got the same phone call, with almost the exact same words, and took off on the next flight to Moscow without hesitation.

Six years ago, Zhenya was twenty three and scared out his goddamned mind for his parents and brother.

Six years ago, Zhenya didn’t have Sidney walking back into the bedroom, holding a tray laden down with breakfast and a huge smile on his face.

“Oh, you’re up,” Sidney says with a sigh, pouting. Sidney does love to wake Zhenya up with a kiss, or ten.

“Now isn’t a good time, Sanja. Surely there’s another art thief you can use,” Zhenya says in Russian, as slow and purposeful as he can. Sidney’s got an ear for languages, and picked it up when they first bonded. Sidney almost drops the tray.

“Oh, but I want to use _you_ , Zhenya,” Sanja says. “But it sounds like you’re far too preoccupied right now. Is your Agent Crosby there? Are you still playing happy families? I wonder how that’s going to work out. It’s in your blood. You’re an animal, you can’t be domesticated and chained down forever. Ring me when you’re ready to get back to work.”

The call cuts and Zhenya drops it to the bed, his fingers nerveless. He looks at Sidney, and can feel the panic and fear start to swell in his chest, foreign and bond strong.

“Geno,” Sidney starts, crawling on the bed.

“I said I’m not go back. So I’m not go back,” Zhenya says. His heart is beating hummingbird fast, and he feels dizzy and sweaty. He can’t tell if it’s him or Sidney.

“We’ll get to your parents, move them somewhere safe,” Sidney says, reaching for his own phone. Zhenya knocks it from his hands, sends it scattering across the polished floorboards.

“They not move. Sanja not hurt them. He just like to say he will. I’m make own plans,” Zhenya says, because he still knows a lot of people in the south of Russia who owe him. He knows a lot of people everywhere who owe him.

Sidney doesn’t look convinced. Zhenya points at the samovar.

“Tea time, Sid. Come on. You make such nice breakfast, not waste it. I’m have class in two hours, c’mon!”

Sidney sighs but pulls the tray on the bed, dispatching a teacup and a plate piled high with toast, eggs, bacon and pancakes.

Zhenya pulls him in by his t-shirt, and kisses him as deeply as he can.

“I’m not leave again. I promise,” he says.

And he means it, this time.

 

* * *

 

“Where is he?”

It’s more of a demand than a question, with the kind of push behind that calm tone-- the one that can put a quiver in the knees of the toughest agents.

Ovechkin just grins, and tosses a poker chip in his direction.

“Try Qatar. I hear is nice, this time of year.”

Sidney doesn’t even flinch as he pulls the pistol up to Ovechkin’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally locate Malkin, he’s tied up in a basement in Sochi, covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence typical of this universe. 
> 
> This is for everyone who begged for some kind of resolution, because the cliffhanger ending was mean. Tori suggested I make this a White Collar verse or something similar, but I think it's a little too dark for that? Maybe I'll try again later, when my WIPs list is less formidable and I feel less angsty. Enjoy my proper~ ending!

\--

When they finally locate Malkin, he’s tied up in a basement in Sochi, covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else. His hair is matted and his shirt is ripped and torn, with cuts and bruises mottling his pale skin. There’s a wheeze in his chest and the stuttered breathing pattern indicates broken ribs-- broken _something_.

 

Sidney had been half out his mind since Malkin had disappeared, unable to sit still for more than a second as Malkin’s kidnappers moved him from safehouse to safehouse, never anywhere for longer than they needed to be to ping Sidney’s bond connection.

It was Ovechkin, of all people, who helped them track down Malkin to Sochi. Some low level art theft ring was meeting a sheik to sell him a series of fake Degas paintings, and of course Malkin was an expert in Degas forgeries. He had painted three of them before he tried to escape, and that’s when the beatings had started.

Ovechkin had become quite eager to help them find Malkin once the first video had been sent to Crosby’s inbox. It was a pretty standard kidnapping video-- Malkin having the shit kicked out of him while a voice screamed obscenities offscreen and a piece of paper was held up demanding two hundred thousand dollars and a plane to Qatar. After the video ended, Ovechkin had spun in his chair for a while, before tapping a finger to his nose.

“I’m know them. Separatists. Want money for bombs. More than just Degas. Zhenya find out, get mad. They take him to Sochi for deal, bet my grandma on it.”

And five relocations later, sure enough-- Sochi.

 

So Dupuis and Ovechkin are in a tinted SUV with Crosby and Knight, speeding towards the safehouse they believe Malkin’s being kept in. Crosby’s shaking and sweaty, his face pressed against the window, fingernails digging into his thigh. He’s been getting worse, ever since Malkin started getting moved from country to country, city to city. They’ve all got their thoughts, their suspicions-- that Crosby’s going into some sort of bond withdrawal, one he’s kept hidden before when he and Malkin have been separated, but for some reason has given up on trying to hide this time. Dupuis shifts uncomfortably in his leather seat.

“He need his bondmate,” Ovechkin says, breaking the stifling silence in the car.

Knight snorts. “No shit,” she mutters in French, fingers drumming an irregular staccato against her thigh.

Dupuis rubs his temple. He’s got a headache and run out of antacid tablets. It’s Cody’s birthday today, and he’s in southern Russia to rescue an art criminal.

“Knight,” he says.

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “We’ve been tracking Malkin for a month now. The fact he’s being held in Sochi makes no sense. There’s no separatist movements there, fuck what Ovechkin says. We’ve got no intel _anywhere_ to confirm that.”

Ovechkin shrugs. “Americans not know everything about Russia. We get Zhenya, take him home. Not Russia anymore. His home someone else.”

Everyone in the car looks at Crosby. Crosby doesn’t look away from the skyline.

Dupuis flicks open his phone and checks his messages. His wife has sent a picture of Cody blowing out his candles, a party hat askew on his head. _Come home soon._

 

* * *

 

Zhenya feels like he’s floating, to be honest. It’s similar to submerging himself in the bond, but… less fulfilling, somehow. He can’t feel his arms or legs, and if his last memories of either are anything to go by, that’s a good thing, because he remembers pain.

“Geno?” a voice echoes somewhere far away. Zhenya sighs. He loves that voice. Loves the inflection, loves the rounded vowels, loves every part of that name and that tone. He can feel his bond stir, deep inside him, singing to-- singing to _his._

“Sidney,” Zhenya tries. It won’t come past his lips, so he thinks it instead, sighs in relief as the bond explodes into a rainbow kaleidoscope of feelings inside his chest-- the relief, the passion, the overwhelming love and affection washing over him. They can’t normally communicate via their thoughts, it’s just not how their bond works, but he’s slowly starting to come to and he can feel the ghost of a touch on his hand. Maybe that’s why this is happening.

The voice starts up again, almost tripping over itself in its haste to communicate. English, fucking horrible language that it is. He’d much prefer French. “Geno, thank God. I was so worried, I thought you’d-- I thought you’d left again.”

Zhenya manages to open his eyes, blurry and unfocused in the soft lighting around them. Sidney’s there, _his_ Sidney. Sidney, with red cheeks and his tie askew, hair rumpled and his shirt wrinkled, almost vibrating with the feelings currently running through Zhenya’s veins.

“I’m never leave, Sid,” Zhenya rasps. “I’m tell you, so many.”

Sidney’s nodding, sniffling and rubbing at his face and Zhenya can feel his sorrow, feel his utter and complete and blinding love and it’s so much. It’s so much. He closes his eyes and falls asleep, because it’s easier than trying to sort through the feelings.

He knows Sidney will be there when he wakes up, and that’s enough for him. It’s over now.

 

* * *

 

Geno gets released back into Sidney’s custody, except this time he gets a shiny ankle bracelet and a debt to pay to the CIA -- because apparently it’s somehow _his_ fault for being kidnapped and “running”.

“But he didn’t run--” Sidney starts. Senior Agent Bylsma just waves a hand.

“He was released into your custody. As part of that release, he had special conditions. We didn’t give him the ankle bracelet then because we thought the bond would be enough.”

Sidney’s hands curl into fists. He measures his breathing, keeps his expression as blank as possible. Bylsma continues.

“Since it’s not, we’re going to add some extra measures. In case any more of Mr. Malkin’s acquaintances come crawling out the woodwork to extract something from him.”

“Doctor,” Sidney says. Bylsma looks up over his glasses. “Dr. Malkin. He’s got several doctorates and he lectures at Virginia Tech.”

“ _Whatever_. He’s a consultant for us on white collar crimes and art theft. That’s his job. Make sure he does it, and does it safely, Crosby.”

A handwave, a dismissal.

Sidney leaves, his fists still clenched. Geno’s back and he’s safe, and he’s not leaving.

 

* * *

 

Hilary is in one of their breakout rooms, stripping down and cleaning her gun while the boys get Chinese for lunch. Malkin’s skulking around, looking at the paintings on the walls. He’s dressed like a grandpa today, Hilary notes. Mustard coloured cardigan, pressed white shirt, jeans and loafers, with thick rimmed glasses and his hair combed over.

She doesn’t know how he can have pulled off as many cons as he has, given how much of a dork he is. Guess that’s part of being a con man, she figures-- being unassuming, and having people constantly underestimate you.

They’ve worked together for months now, Malkin assisting on tens of cases before the kidnapping, and now he’s got an ankle bracelet and another two years on his sentence for his troubles. It’s bullshit and bureaucratic, and she’s pretty sure it’s because Crosby wants to retire to have babies with Malkin, and become a suburban Virginian housewife.

The big ones upstairs can’t have that. Crosby’s closure rate is astronomical.

“You like art?” Malkin asks. Hilary looks up from the chamber of her gun. She likes a lot of stuff. She likes fighting, she likes hockey, she likes bright coloured nail polish and bath bombs and tattoos, and driving fast and her place in the Hamptons and surfing. Art doesn’t really rate that highly amongst her list of likes.

“It’s alright. Modern art confuses me,” she says with a shrug. Malkin cracks a grin. There’s still bruises on his jawline, strangulation marks along his neck. Her eyes drift lower, snapping back up when he clears his throat and shrugs into his cardigan a little more.

“Is confusing, yes. I like Renaissance art. Much nicer, more human.” Malkin’s finger trails along the curves of some woman lying on a chaise, half-naked and looking like she’s in pain. Malkin looks enchanted.

She goes back to cleaning her gun.

 

* * *

 

Sidney takes Geno home, because they have the rest of the week off and it’s better than being in the Bureau.

He watches Geno as they move about the house, as Geno makes spaghetti for dinner and has to watch himself, holding himself tight as he sits down and tries not to breathe too deeply lest he jar the three broken ribs he’s got.

“I’m never letting anyone take you ever again,” Sidney says once Geno’s taken a sip of water and popped his painkillers for the night. Geno sighs.

“Was my mistake, Sid, not you. We both be smart next time,” Geno says, twirling his pasta on his fork. Sidney slams his hand against the table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump. The salt wobbles and falls over, spilling onto the redwood table. Geno frowns and picks it up, shaking a pinch into his palm and throwing it over his left shoulder.

Superstitious bullshit.

“Goddamnit Geno, don’t fucking act like this wasn’t--” Sidney starts, but Geno reaches across and laces their fingers together. Sidney’s voice dies off in his throat, completely unbidden as he sinks into the bond, a boneless puddle.

“Both our fault. I’m dumb, you dumb. We be better next time. I have ankle thing now, too. Safer. We okay,” Geno soothes, rubbing his thumb along Sidney’s knuckles.

“Geno,” Sidney whispers. Geno shakes his head and goes back to his pasta, one handed.

“We okay,” Geno says.

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLAH](http://cathedralhearts.tumblr.com/).


End file.
